


Winter Moon

by thelittlenyx (Nyx_Aki)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Gen, Werewolf AU, everyone is kinda old here, one where no-one gets mauled, rural Russia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-04-14 09:15:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14132946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyx_Aki/pseuds/thelittlenyx
Summary: For decades, tales of a werewolf that terrorized the village have made its way into the firesides of the people who live in them. The one thing the storytellers fail to agree on, however, is how it ends.This is the tale of the one who knows, and what happens after.





	Winter Moon

The yellow electric lamp and the fire, blazing hot and bright in the fireplace, are the only things in the dusty tavern keeping out the cold of the winter night.

Even so, there are those who would frequent the Tiger’s Head even in this forbidding weather: weathered men seeking respite from the toil of their menial jobs, young lads out for a night of revelry even in the soft snowfall, and aged elders with nothing else to do but sit quiescent and brooding with mugs of sbiten and smoking cigars.

The bartender, a tall, hoary man in his late sixties, throws down his cleaning rag and glances out of the window at the snowing night outside.

“It’s a full moon tonight.” he observes.

One of the younger men- Petrov, the raucous woodcutter’s boy with a boisterous attitude and a fondness for getting drunk on vodka in the early hours of the morning- overhears him, and laughs. “Scared of werewolves, old man?”

One of the elders sitting near the fire growls. “Don’t say such things, Petrov.”

“Why not?” One of Petrov’s loutish friends, Alexei, takes a swig from his glass. “Old tales my _babushka_ used to tell me to scare me to sleep! Why don’t you tell us one then, old man, so you can lull us to sleep too?”

The atmosphere in the small tavern flares to life, suffused by the merriment of the young and tempered with the disdain of the old.

“There used to be attacks, when the village was small and the forest was yet savage and untamed.” one of the older men mutters. His companions, all in their seventies, shudder at the memory.

“Wait.” One of the quieter boys speaks up. “Weren’t those just normal wolf attacks?”

“Were normal wolves twice the size of your house, with fangs as long as your hand?” the man snaps. “Do normal wolves stand up on their hind legs? No, this was a werewolf, and I know it, because I saw it.”

Everyone in the tavern falls quiet; even the laughter of Petrov’s cronies die away as their initial mockery is replaced by a cautious curiosity and the age-old allure of new stories told.

The elder, sensing that all attention in the room has been diverted towards him, quaffs down the remainder of his sbiten and begins.

“It was around sixty years ago, when I was around twelve or so- sheep were disappearing, howls heard in the night, and so on. We thought it was a normal wolf at first, and we set up extra fences and reinforced the sheds to deter it.”

He raises a gnarled hand for more drinks, and the bartender, who had been unusually quiet the whole time, passes him a glass without breaking his silence and retreats to the corner he was in.

“But when we woke up the next morning, the fences were gone. Ripped to shreds, like wet paper in the wind. And the sheds were torn up too- splinters everywhere, and what’s more, there were huge claw marks dug into the sides, like someone had taken a scythe to it. And our sheep were gone.”

His friends stirred and murmured; one of them spoke up, his voice gravelly.

“My father was among those they sent out to patrol the village borders at night, to alert the village and capture whatever manner of beastly creature it was stalking our property. He couldn’t see very well in the darkness, but he told us the next morning that what he saw was a huge, hulking figure, blacker than the darkness, and red eyes that reflected off his oil lamp. He said it was a reincarnation of the Devil.”

One or two of the boys shiver involuntarily. Petrov scoffs and hides his nervousness behind his glass of vodka.

“All the villagers were terrified, I remember,” he continues. “The evidence was building- some called my father and his companions liars, but right there in the snow of the forest there were giant paw prints twice the size of my boot. No-one could have faked that.”

“Don’t forget the howling. Like the song of demons it was.” his companion added sombrely. “My little sister was scared out of her wits- couldn’t sleep for days.”

“Did you ever see the werewolf’s human form?” one of Petrov’s friends inquires eagerly.

At his station behind the counter, the bartender shifts very slightly.

The old storyteller shakes his head. “Alas, no. If we did it would’ve been easy to capture it, but it lived in the heart of the forest, and its tracks always disappeared halfway.”

“We tried.” the old man by the fire growls. “Do you remember? All the village men took up arms and stormed the forest in daylight. We _even found its lair.”_

It was rare for the dusty Tiger’s Head to be completely silent, but it achieved that feat today. The bartender never spoke a word, but his sharp green eyes missed nothing, watching the scene with rapt attention.

“It was a false lead, Evgeni.” the storyteller objects. “There was no wolf.”

“No, it disappeared.” Evgeni retorts. “There were signs of it living in there- the sheep bones that piled against the cave wall was good enough evidence. The scrapes and scratches on the floor were too big to be done by any normal wolf- but of course, _you_ didn’t see that. All you saw were shadows and your own nightmares!”

Insulted, the old man stands up to make his way towards him, but a fierce hand yanks him back down into his seat.

“No fighting in my tavern, or you take it outside.” the old bartender barks, emerald eyes sparking. “You’re too full of drink and your own bravado to think clearly, Dimitri- you might as well go home for the night.”

Everyone in the tavern knew better than to cross its owner, and after a charged moment the old man sits down heavily.

“Go home, all of you.” the bartender snaps, stalking back behind the scratched wooden counter. “I’m shutting early tonight. If you want anymore stories go to your _babushkas.”_

“But-” Alexei starts. “Did they ever find the werewolf?”

Petrov snorts, swaying a little from his vodka. “Find it? You heard old Evgeni back there- it _disappeared._ You know what that means in stories? It never existed at all!”

“Quiet, boy.” Evgeni snarls. “Show a little more respect.”

“It ran away.” the youngest of the elders replies, taking pity on the young man. “We never heard of it from that day onwards. By the blessing of God maybe, it either died or moved somewhere else.”

“Ha!” Petrov slurs.

“Out!” gripes the bartender, clearing up the glasses. “Don’t make me boot you outside.”

Grumbling and shuffling, the group make their way out into the chill of the winter night, save the last man who answered Petrov. He stands near the entrance, watching the old bartender pile the glasses into the sink.

“What do you want, Andrei?” he asks after a moment.

Andrei smiles. “Say hello to him for me.”

The bartender pauses in his ministrations, and then grunts. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Babicheva. Leave me to my peace.”

Still smiling, Andrei heads out of the door. “Same as ever. Goodnight, Plisetsky.”

A grunt is all he gets in reply; it’s more than he’d expected.

 

*******

 

The yellowish glow from the naphtha light pierces the night as Yuri Plisetsky walks through it.

Lantern gripped in hands now old and wrinkled, he walks the same path he memorized as a child and traversed for over sixty years, under the pale light of the full moon. The darkness of the forest presses all around and behind him, but he is not afraid; all things pale in the face of the burning fear that had consumed him as he ran down this same path, with no lamp and only the moon to guide his way, at fifteen with only one thought in his mind: to save his friend from a terrible fate.

“Almost there,” he murmurs, and hoicks up the backpack on his shoulder.

A few more steps, and he can see now what lies before him: the gaping mouth of the old cave, the moon shining luminous and faithful, and the great hulking shape at the edge of the light.

Baring its formidable fangs in a growl, the towering beast leans forward to sniff the air, eyes glowing red in the light.

The old man smiles.

“Hello, Otabek.” he says.

He gently sets down the lamp and sits down with a sigh next to the werewolf, who growls deep in his throat, but makes room for the old man.

“It’s been a better winter than most,” Yuri speaks, watching the lambent light of the lamp incite shadows to flee. “Business is steady- usual amounts of people coming and going.”

He pauses to catch his breath, then smiles again.

“They were talking about the werewolf tales at the tavern, you know? A coincidence that it should happen tonight, but then the full moon _does_ inspire such stories. Who was the werewolf they were talking about, hmm?”

“I do wonder.” a mellow voice replies.

Yuri looks at his side; in place of the werewolf was now an aging man, with powerful dark eyes and black hair with streaks of white.

“It’s good to see you again.” Otabek says.

Yuri nods, and Otabek sits down next to him. “What’s that you have in your bag?” he asks.

Yuri reaches into it and produces a pair of clean glasses and an unopened bottle of kvass. “Perks of being a bartender,” he quips, “you’ll never run dry.”

Otabek laughs, and together they share the bottle between them, in each other’s company as they had done for years and years before.

 

Behind them, the village dims; ahead of them, the moon shines gentle over the old forest, slumbering in the night.

**Author's Note:**

> “Andrei says hi.” Yuri says, later.
> 
> “Mila’s nephew? So she’s told him about me, then.” Otabek muses, nursing his glass.  
> “I’ll punch him if he ever spreads the word about you,” Yuri vows.
> 
> “You’d break your fingers.” Otabek says. 
> 
> “Shut up.” Yuri grouses. “I know I’m getting old.”


End file.
